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                           Snapshot #25
                             X-Files
                             (Mf, bd)
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              (c) August 2000 - All Rights Reserved
                Crimson Dragon (dcrimson@yahoo.com)
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Naked, she padded across to the thermostat, watching her finger as
it switched off the air conditioning. It would take a while for this
room to acquire the heat and humidity of the outdoors, but it
inevitably would. She turned back into the sitting room where the
equipment lay.
She shivered in anticipation while she sat quietly in the recliner
waiting for him. She glanced for the millionth time at the mantle
clock that was ticking monotonously its endless cadence. Resisting
the urge to stroke her nipples, she sighed and returned her gaze to
the fluff of Dean Koontz.
The mantle clock struck eight, and she lifted her head allowing the
long brunette tresses to fall across her bare shoulders. He was
standing in the doorway watching her silently.
She made to say his name, and then caught her breath. Instinct
flooded her and the carpet felt rough against her knees as she
slipped from the comfortable recliner.
She could see it in his face: he didn't understand, and probably
never would. But it meant sex for him, and while he might be
confused, he wouldn't deny her. She smiled encouragement at him from
her kneeling position.
"You really want to do this?" he asked.
She nodded her head and simply crawled to the centre of the room
where the unusual equipment lay. His hands on her bare skin felt
like electricity flowing through her body. Each snap of the locks as
they clasped the bonds tightening around her limbs sent another bolt
through her. Each wrist locked to the chain stretching across the
room felt like a jail cell door echoing up a cellblock. Each ankle
bound to the limits of the steel bar between felt like her freedom
and worries slipping inexorably from her limbs. Then the innocent
blue cloth as it slipped over her eyes, blinding her, released her.
"I have to go now," he whispered close by her ear. She nodded her
head in understanding. "Are you going to be fine here? By yourself?"
His voice carried a note of extreme worry. A tingle swept through
her senses. Again she nodded and felt him withdraw from her. After a
moment, she felt his footsteps and heard the deadbolt slide home
against the doorframe.
She was alone again.
               <---===***===--->
The carpet felt rough against her palms, knees and the tops of her
feet. The warm air of the room caressed her skin, like a lover
might.
If she wanted to, she could probably straighten, rising on her
tiptoes, thrusting her bare bottom high, hands planted on the floor.
But she didn't. She felt vulnerable, and alone, just as she had
planned.
The metronome of the clock ticked by the passage of time.
               <---===***===--->
Without warning, she heard the familiar haunting strains of the
theme music as the mantle clock struck nine. She could feel the
dragging of her hair against the carpet as she lifted her head in
surprise. She hadn't heard him enter to switch on the television.
She nervously glanced around her black room desperately trying to
locate him.
A sound behind her betrayed him, and she relaxed a little.
Light blinded her as unseen fingers released her blindfold. She
blinked, trying to focus her eyes. Involuntary tears welled up and
gathered in her eyelids until they spilled over her cheeks dripping
to the carpet. Unable to brush them away, she shook her head gently
until her vision cleared
The television exuded a blue light flickering and washing over her
bound body. She took a deep breath and began to watch the images of
Mulder and Scully as they began a new hunt into the paranormal.
Her cry reverberated through the room as he entered her suddenly and
without warning and began to move ever so slowly inside her. She
pressed back as best she could.
               <---===***===--->
Her lips formed unintelligible words, begging him to finish. Mulder
and Scully forgotten, she pulled vaguely at her bound ankles trying
to adjust the angle of the sex, but he knew her too well; knew her
too well to allow her the freedom of controlling her climax. Her
hair hung lank down her head, pooling on the carpet below. She
pressed back again, crying out in frustration. Sweat pooled on her
bare body, running down her arms and thighs, refusing to evaporate
into the still, humid air of the room.
The mantle clock struck ten, and she wearily raised her head to find
the words: "To Be Continued ..." flashing across the television. Her
numbed mind wondered if she'd have to wait until next week for her
resolution. The haunting theme washed over her senses as she felt
him finally begin to increase the tempo. His fingers brushed her
flank as they stroked between her spread thighs.
God, how she had wished over the last hour to touch herself. Right.
There.
As the television switched off, her cry of release surprised even
herself.